I've Almost Grown A Portion Of This Place, I Seem Familiar With Each Mossy Stone; Even The Nimble Chipmunk Passes On, And Looks, But Never Scolds Me. Birds Have Flown And Almost Touched My Hand; And I Can Trace The Wild Bees To Their Hives. I've Never Known So Sweet A Pause From Labour. But The Tone Of A Past Sorrow, Like A Mournful Rill Threading The Heart Of Some Melodious Hill, Or The Complainings Of The Whippoorwill, Passes Through Every Thought, And Hope, And Aim. It Has Its Uses; For It Cools The Flame Of Ardent Love That Burns My Being Up - Love, Life'S Celestial Pearl, Diffused Through All Its Cup.